


Living The High End

by RationalistRomantic (Chryses)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bartender John, Foul Language, Host!Sherlock, Implicit Relationship, In-depth Character Studies, It hurts before it gets better, M/M, Might change the ratings later on, Satire, Seemingly unrequited love, Sherlock is a bit of a Dick, The author making readers think, There's a case beneath all the madness, Trigger Warnings, a bit of angst, but that's not mentioned until later, but that's nothing new, complicated relationship, slowburn, until it's not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-17 14:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9330020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/RationalistRomantic
Summary: John was a bartender; his job should've been simple. Apparently, Sherlock disagrees.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I wanted to try out with my head running about. Please enjoy!

Everybody fucking wanted him.

 

“Surely you can let me stay for longer, won’t you?” The woman was basically eye raping the damn bastard the whole chance she was allowed; her fucking tits presenting like some sort of  dessert to be taken advantage of, and his highness - ever the fucking charmer - just lapped it up like he actually had an ounce of interest in the female population.

 

With her credit card pinched between two fingers, Sherlock brushed it along his cupid’s bow; eyes like motherfucking black holes if you stared at them long enough. He looked amused, but there was a hint of irritation that sat on his lips. Shit. There goes another regular.

 

“You’re up to your elbows in debt, and your husband had recently finalized your divorce; one would assume that you’d at least mourn for the lost of your only source of income, but no, you’re too proud of that, aren’t you? Too proud to admit that nobody else would look at you twice unless you wear eight-sizes-too-small attire like some world-class harlot.” Her face flamed at the comment, and she immediately pulled herself away from her perch around the bloke’s bicep, and one red claw collided with Sherlock’s cheek. Blood seeped from two of the four scratches. Not the best reaction, but he doubted it would scar. “A pity.”

 

“You bastard!” The damn harpy shrieked like she found the idea offending (which, yeah, it is), and she raised another overly manicured hand to strike again, only to be intercepted. Great, now he had to pay for another broken glass with his salary.

 

“Ma’am, I think it’s best if you leave.” Every fucking time he’s forced to fix this bastard’s mess.

 

“Did you just hear what he fucking said -”

 

“And believe me, I’m sure the slap was well-deserved.” He threw the idiot his best reprimanding glare; he only got thick lashes that blinked coyly at him, and a half-hearted toast before throwing the drink on the back of his throat; his too pale of an adam's apple, bobbed in an almost illegal manner. John’s glare only hardened. “But if you would like to personally involve the authorities, then you have the liberty to pummel this moron to the next life.”

 

Sherlock looked, if not more amused by the comment.

 

The woman took a minute to collect herself before she whipped her hand away from the hold, and clacked her overly ostentatious heels out the transparent doors; a corner of her shoulder bumped Mic - the bodyguard by the exit - on the way out as she exited. And good riddance.

 

Without another word, he grabbed Sherlock by the chin, tilted the bloke’s head to better lighting, and wiped at the wound with a fresh cloth he kept handy specifically for this kind of situation. His prediction had not gone unfounded: most of it was just outer damage to the skin. It needed to be sterilized in the very least.

 

“To be fair, her credit card was already cancelled; she can hardly afford another second even if she wanted to.” Sherlock explained, annoyingly pliable under John’s speculation.

 

“Right then, this might need some antiseptics.” He murmured, mostly to himself. He didn’t need any explanation, because he knew the bastard well enough that he felt no regret with telling that woman off. “Stay here; I’ll pop ‘round Molly to get some. **_Stay. here._ ** ” He groaned inwardly at the hand on his wrist. Wouldn’t go down without a fight, eh? “Let go.”

 

All he got was a hum, and a faint brush of skin to his pulse point. He didn’t need to turn his head to know what Sherlock was doing.

 

“If you wanted me to - as you so eloquently put it - _let go_ , then you would’ve pulled away by now.”

 

He was literally breathing through his nose in an attempt to keep the rage of his emotions at bay.

 

“You heard me.” His teeth clenched harder when he felt a bit of tongue and some teeth biting on the small patch of skin. They stayed like that for a few long moments, the soft croon of Lana Del Ray’s “ _Gods and Monsters_ ” mockingly echoed over the stereos; the chandeliers blindingly bright.

 

Slowly, the lips left his skin, and he hated himself a little more for being aware of the very moment that it happened; the fingers pressed over the inflamed area for too long of a second before it dropped back to the man’s lap.

 

At the sound of footsteps, he shook himself mentally before he headed back to his station by the bar. Too late. Here they go again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A right bloody encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another installment. The updates are short, but I find myself updating this. Odd. Anyways, when you see the words: infeliciter in mundo - for those of you who speak Latin - means "Unfortunately in the world". If anybody has a better way to phrase it, then please leave a comment below.

Obviously, there was no such thing as a coincidence. He was in the army for a short stint, he got shot on his ruddy shoulder (trust him to get injured on his dominant side), and he was brought home through a copter and lo and behold, he was back in the Queen’s territory. There was surgery, there was therapy (and it was all well and good - not), and of bloody course, that was when he met Mike. Again, apparently.

 

At the time, he had no idea about the significance of the meeting. Yet. All he knew, was that he was invited to an outing. Just...an outing. At least that’s what he thought.

 

“It’s not actually something obligatory.” Mike stated whilst they turned another corner. It was getting dodgier the more he spoke of it. But then again, he knew Mike, and although they lost touch a few years, he doubted that the bloke was capable of anything that afforded a minor ASBO. “In fact, you’re free to refuse any time, but I just thought - since you just got back -” _since you’re more than a little unemployed_. “- well, do you remember when you worked at Pete’s before you enlisted?”

 

_Please!_

 

“I only got shot at a little; doubt it affected my memory.” He joked after a moment. Mike’s wince indicated that he probably shouldn’t have said that. Was recalling his past like picking at scabs now? “Used to invite all the girls there on my day off, remember?” He recovered with a smirk, and elbowed at Mike’s middle. “And we could hardly forget your first dance.”

 

Mike quickly regained equilibrium, and rolled his eyes. Good. No wonder he was friends with the bloke.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I remember. Thanks for that, by the way; now I’m going to need another 30 years to forget it again.”

 

“Oh, cor, don’t be like that.” He barked out a laugh, and quickly squeezed at Mike’s closest shoulder. “I’m sure that blow up doll had a lovely time.”

 

“Oh, sod off.” Mike chides the same time he passes through glass doors. _Infeliciter in mundo_. He snorted slightly. The person up front barely glanced their direction, though he regarded John just a second longer. In fairness, it was hardly his fault that he found the name amusing when he passed by forgettable, glittery men with a bird at each arm.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re hooking me up, already.” He stated when Mike sat them on one of the tables, and nodded towards a bloke by the bar who immediately started whipping up a couple of glasses. “I know I just got back and all, but I’ve never actually _had_ blue balls before.”

 

Mike snorted through the glass of water he was drinking, and began choking.

 

“For God’s sake -”

 

“And if it’s the injury, then feel free to choke on that water, you arsehole.” He smirked the moment the bartender arrived with a curt nod and slightly flushed cheeks, before he attended to someone who sat on one of the ridiculous bar stools.

 

“Okay, there’s an opening for a barkeep.” Mike finally confessed right after he recovered, and was nursing a shot of whiskey flat with one hand. “Thought you might be interested.”

 

“Mike, I’m not sure -”

 

“It’s only part-time: just needed someone during the peak-days.” His friend insisted, and if it weren’t edged with actual desperation, then he would’ve just ignored the topic altogether. Obligatory, he says. He had the right to refuse, he says. “I wouldn’t have asked if we had any other options, and I know you’re perfectly capable of the job.” Yeah, ta for that.

 

He groaned, and massaged at his forehead. Although his friend had a point, he doubted he was even suited for a job like this; most men in here ranged from their late twenties to their early thirties. For all he knew he could be old enough to be their father.

 

“Mike.” You’re putting me on the tough spot here. Stop with those bloody puppy-dog eyes. Now.

 

“John.” He blew burpies on the heel of his palm.

 

Before the answer had barely left his mouth, there was a loud crash of glass, and he was under the table before he knew it.

 

“Army soldier, and a doctor. Interesting.” Said someone whom he couldn’t see. Then there was footsteps, and there were expensive oxies that stopped by their table.

 

“Sherlock, you can’t just throw glass like that when you want to.” Protested Mike who immediately stood up during the event.

 

“Please; we could always get more. Not like we can’t afford it.” There was a brief pause. “Besides, I just came here to provide his answer.” The bloke - Sherlock spoke. “A yes, naturally.”

 

“Now hold on.” He stood up from his crouch, and slammed a hand down the table. Their glasses clinked slightly at the movement.  Dark styled curls, arrogant eyes, expensive posh suit that probably afforded a few months salary, and a voice that dripped sultry. Can this get more any bloody cliche?! “Who said you could dictate my decision for me?”

 

“Well, seeing as I cured your limp, I would assume that you’d be more than grateful.”

 

He barely glanced at his leg in favour of glaring at the man in question. Bastard.

 

“Case in point.” He merely said, and he was off after having received a text message. “See you tomorrow, Doctor.” And with that, he was left to blink after the closing doors.

 

“Look John,” Mike urged from his side. “You don’t have to -”

 

My god. There was a story there, surely; loner posh boy who sought for love. Or maybe… loner posh boy who sought for love through his clients. Damn. He couldn’t believe that he was even saying this, but…

  


“When do I start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always...thoughts? :}


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John contemplated a normal life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at numero three.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” His jaw barely even managed to latch itself back in place. “This is a fucking host club, not some badly filmed porno.”

 

There was a chuckle right behind him, and there stood Mike who prepared a drink of his own concoction. The man literally did anything he wanted, and was not sussed out (provided that John ever made a move to stop him). He came in from time-to-time, but not enough to be considered intrusive. From what he heard, his friend didn’t even work a single day of his life in here, and he was suppose to be this shaman guru who led people’s paths.

 

“Some of the props were from his own collection, actually.” He appeared disinterested when he watched a client literally fucking shower the arsehole with bloody gold _GOLD_ \- is that some supposed illusion of ‘living the life’?! What next? Some smuggled pearls from the lost kingdom of Atlantis!? This is getting fucking ridiculous. “Most of them are just from his adoring fan -”

 

“- regulars.” He gritted, whilst he wiped at another glass with extreme focus. “They’re _just_ his regulars.” Heck, who the hell would pay four digits minimum to spend time with that absolute wanker? The arrogant sod barely even remembered them half the time, so naturally, he turned to John. Hell, he knew more rapists and serial killers than people who lived close to him in his flat.

 

“Careful mate; green is not exactly a good colour on anyone.” His friend pointed out. He had this creepy, amused smile on his face whilst he freely studied the ponce. John - naturally - looked elsewhere. “And I doubt you have to be worried about his nibs being caught by someone else.”

 

“Oh, shove off, will ya?” He groaned for what felt like the thirtieth time of the evening. “We’re not fucking - we’re not like that!”

 

“Then what are we like, John?”

 

He barely had time to realize another body had joined their little get-together, and Mike - the damn fucking maestro - just immigrated to a lone corner, toasting to them with a particular grin that John had no qualms in punching.

 

He stayed silent.

 

“We’re not lovers, we’re not friends, we’re not acquaintances, yet strangers doesn’t exactly define who we are.” His breath brushed along John’s ears now, enough to feel the unbridled rage that shot up his system. Oooh this bastard. He’s getting ballsier by the day.

 

“William, darling, come on back!” The one with the tattooed pubic hair on his face called out.

 

“We’re lost without our lovely host!” Another one screeched.

 

“Looks like they’re calling for you.” He muttered with complete indifference. Now that he thought about it, these bottles do need some polishing. “Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

 

“Oh, please, they’re hardly worth my time of day.” He blew some air up his face that messed at his curly bangs to give him this fuckable look. He wondered - not for the first time - when he would actually quit this job, and live the perfectly ordinary life he wanted. “One’s a serial adulterer, and the other is a necrophiliac in denial - boring! And they don’t even know anybody relevant.” And by relevant, he meant big-shots who got away with years worth of crime under their belt; not exactly the picture-perfect citizen.

 

He rolled his eyes, and shoved a couple of martinis onto each paw.

 

“ _You’re_ a host, and _they’re_ your customers. Just do your damn job, will you?”

 

Sherlock merely smirked.

 

“Promise not to miss me too much?”

 

His mouth opened to hurl another insult, but was gone unfounded: his highness finally decided that play-flirting with him was not getting him anywhere, and finally decided to fulfill his duties. Damn straight.

 

“Not exactly how I expected it to happen.” Mike said as he approached with an empty glass.

 

“What? That we didn’t kiss in the end?” He joked, and immediately regretted it. Fuck. He will never hear the fucking end of this. For as long as he lived. EVER.

 

“No, actually.” His friend burped discreetly (wuss) behind one hand. “I was hoping that you’d finally decide to jump him, or something. It doesn’t take a child to realize how you’d like to tap that arse -” And he leapt to the exit, a whole lemon missing his head by about an inch. Bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any words of wisdom you'd like to impart on this wee tad pole?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns a little more about his job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I feel like this chapter is going to be dreadful, but I'll leave it for you folks to decide. It's a little longer than my normal updates, though. Enjoy! :)!

When day one actually approached, he never knew what to expect. There was a part of him that anticipated a break from the persistent monotony in his life, but anything could happen, and he was not a fucking fortune teller.

“I see they hired a new one – poor thing,” Said one voice from behind him. Not even a few metres from the back entrance, and already he began questioning his own decision. Also, manners apparently was not a required skill, neither was absolute fucking subtlety. “No amount of training will ever amount to whatever he will go through, ey Roger?”

“You never know, mate.” He ribbed his companion whilst smirking. “For all we know, he could handle his majesty in the long run. Don’t he look it?”

“He does have that air to him, though,” Not-Roger agreed after a long moment. “But we said the same thing about the Vic, didn’t we? See how he turned out.”

“Boys, boys, keep your voice down; the walls have ears, ‘ya know?” A silver-haired man popped out from around the corner. He instantly spotted John who was trying to locate his locker in the change room, and offered him a hand. The other blokes were gone faster than they appeared. “Don’t let those tossers ruin your impression of Sherlock now; he can be tolerable when he wants to.”

He took the proffered hand and shook it briefly. “And how often is that, exactly?” It was something he needed to feel out before he could dive head first.

The bloke smiled guiltily at him. That itself was an answer. Of. Fucking. Course. Actually, take that back. Maybe he wasn’t that bad of an omniscient.

“Well, I can’t exactly say it makes its appearance too often, but it does happen on occasion. Particularly when –“ He scratched at his stubble decisively for a moment. “- actually, nobody really knows. It’s sporadic, but you could count yourself lucky if you’re on the receiving end of it.”

He mirrored the expression.

“Fingers crossed, then. Right.” Although he was in the army, had a distinct feeling that he was trading one battlefield for another. Not exactly a bad thing, but who the hell knows with this Sherlock character prancing about like some goddamn entitled teenager, acting like he owned the place (which, maybe he did, but nothing was set in stone just yet). Anything could happen, and he didn’t have a fucking clue why he felt thrilled by the thought.

 

“I’m sure you’ll do well with managing him, er…” Why does everyone imply that he’ll be the one taking care of the bloke? He was an adult, for god’s sake. Not some god-forsaken child who couldn’t hold his own. At least that was the impression he had. But then again, it’s too early to tell.

 

“John, John Watson; part-time barkeep.”

 

“Lestrade, well, Greg Lestrade; I do the security protocols around here.” Now the whole worn-down, lack of sleep, and jaded expression made a little more sense. “Mostly I work as a detective inspector for the Yard; Sherlock drops by on occasion.”

 

Now, that’s new information.

 

“So, he’s a detective, then?”

 

“Of a sort, yes.” At the sound of a familiar timbre, both heads turned towards the door. Yes. Not like he didn’t see that coming. Sherlock came in dressed in a dark-fitted suit, plum button down, and well-cut trousers. He looked just as impeccable as he did when John first saw him, and just as smug when he took in his and Lestrade’s spooked faces, if not more so. “Though, I’m involved mostly on a consultation basis.”

 

“I never knew the police consulted with detectives.” He glanced at Lestrade for some form of explanation.

 

“We don’t,” Lestrade dead-panned. Sherlock’s attention burned somehow. Was it too early to make it his sole mission to pummel this bloke to submission? “- usually we deal with the questioning and the whole lot, but Sherlock, well, let’s just say that he is a little more capable when it comes to apprehending the suspect.”

 

“Do your work _for_ you, you mean.”

 

“Oi!”

 

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” He tousled his hair in front of a closeby mirror (as if that would make him any more presentable, which - curses, it definitely fucking did). “I believe I am needed.” And with that, he winked out of sight, leaving both he and Lestrade to catch up with the whole encounter.

 

“Well, that was…” He didn’t know how to phrase the whole thing, exactly. Odd? Life-changing? See, now he was just contradicting himself.

 

“Yeah, it happens.” Lestrade admitted with a strained sigh. “Anyway, keep an eye out for him, will you? He might not look it, but he made a little more than a couple of trips to the A & E for the past couple of months.”

 

“Shit, what happened?”

 

“Well, it was mostly him being careless for his own well-being. I’m sure with you being here, we can avoid most of that.”

 

“Mate, I’m just a bartender.” He held his hands up in resignation. Technically he was still trained for combat, but it was best to keep that behind closed doors. At least for now. “The best I could do is call the police.”

 

Lestrade squeezed his shoulder solemnly, his lips curled in an almost pitying smile. He didn’t look too convinced. Yeah, didn’t think so. He never claimed that he was much of a liar.

 

“Right. Either way, if you truly need it, just remember: not all of the taps here have actual beer.” He turned towards the door where John entered through, but paused by the door frame. “If there’s any trouble, I’ll be waiting up front.” And with that, he was off; a trail of dread presented at his wake.

 

John thought of the little warning, and proceeded changing into his uniform. Mostly, all he could think about was how he would possibly have to explain his tardiness on his first day.

 

When he was done, he almost jumped at the sound of loud scuffles when he headed down the main corridor, and rushed to identify its origin.

 

The moment he was able to locate the place, he stopped when he realized that the whole bar was deserted, apart from splintered tables, and broken glasses on the floor. Nobody appeared to need any medical attention, but that wasn’t actually a comforting sign.

 

At the centre of it all was Sherlock on the floor with a massive bloke on top of him: a knife held dangerously close to his carotid vein.

 

He blew an air of annoyance up his face.

 

Oh. That’s what he meant.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always guys: you know the drill~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He learns that he wasn't that special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Never expected for this to happen, but a bit of tension's never hurt anyone, right?

“Hey She -”

 

For fuck’s sake. What did he do wrong now?!

 

“Oi! Sherlock!” Is this what being ignored felt like? It’s _really_ not the best shade on him.

 

“Looks to me like you’re the bane of his existence today.” Supplies Molly with a snort-giggle; it shouldn’t be adorable, but with the company he was forced to deal with on a day-to-day, god, she’s practically the goddess of virtue around here...minus the lab coat that’s almost always dirtied with something he refused to know about.

 

He considered her for a long second. Could it be that he was mistaken? That she wasn’t just this cat-loving pathologist slash physician?

 

“Sorry.” He prods at one ear jokingly, mimicking unsanitary cleaning. “Could you say that again? I must’ve heard you wrong; did you say that I’m the bane of existence _today_?” Is this a rom-com? A comedy? Some sort of satirical joke that would never be funny? A mock hero story? Honestly, he couldn’t fucking tell which one was worst.

 

“Well, you heard correctly.” Her giggling eases, and swiped a hand on one of John’s arm in brief comfort; it only served for this fucking black hole in his gut to widen in circumference. God, why was he experiencing this many shades of loathing? It was hateful. Just...hateful. Fuck it all. Fuck Sherlock for all he cared.

 

It was obvious that she could see through him, it was obvious because he saw the change in her expression, from amusement to just something mournful; he was that pathetic, wasn’t he?

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered solemnly, fidgeting with blood-crusted fingertips; her eyes had never left where Sherlock sat and whispered filthy lies to a woman’s ear - the wickedness of his gaze had nothing innocent about it. “I shouldn’t laugh - I - sometimes I forget that you’re new here, that you weren’t there to experience everything, to-to _know_ why most people aren’t very fond of Sherlock in the long run.”

 

He was stuck at a stalemate. He heard of stories when they thought John wasn’t listening, but he never knew there was some thick, underlying fucking issues that edged some sort of dysfunction - a perfect example for any good relationships.

 

“Well, he’s Sherlock; I should’ve expected that.” He picked up a clean rag, and headed towards an empty table, and began wiping at it with a bit more force to it. Just from the footsteps alone, he knew that he wasn’t alone.

 

“But, did you really?” She had a pale tub held against her stomach; she looked to be a little girl who was getting scolded. Right. He should’ve brought that with him; empty glasses and all. “Expected it?”

 

Fuck. He never anticipated for this to go downhill so fast. He had to abort, or he was going to have to deal with a locker room filled with unwanted attention from men - he could barely give a rats arse to - demanding some sort of explanation about making one of their own cry like that.

 

Forcing a chuckle to bubble up his throat and a genuine smile to his face, he gained some satisfaction when Molly squeaked after he messed with her pony tail a bit. This was nothing to be fucking mourn over, goddamnit! This was Sherlock acting a little more than a prick than usual; it wasn’t anything new, really.

 

“If I’m being honest though.” He studied an empty shot glass between two fingers. “I’d be more worried if people actually took that gigantic git so seriously; I mean, a cold-shoulder, really? Is he fucking eight?” He collected the rest of the glass, and placed them onto the tub.

 

At her very wide eyes, he barked out another laugh before he plucked the material out of her grasp and headed back towards the bar with Molly tailing after him.

 

“You mean that.” She stated after he began submerging each glass into the water.

 

“Captain, ‘nother shot of whiskey, if you may,” voiced a familiar-face; he could never really remember any of these boys' faces (let alone their names), even if he tried, but for god’s sake, why did Sherlock always have to be the bloody exception?!

 

After the man-boy was gone did he deign to answer.

 

“Of course, I do.” And even _he_ was surprised about how much he _meant it_. “I’ve had to deal with a lot of troublesome hoodlums his age from time-to-time, you know? That ponce bastard is nothing special.” Except that was partly a lie, but she didn’t need to know that.

 

She leaned onto a curve of the bar, her back to him. She hummed as though she didn’t believe a word of it - was he _that_ readable. He was in the army for fuck’s sake! He inwardly sighed; James would’ve given him crap for it if he ever witnessed any of this.

 

“Did he...you know?” he attempted nonchalance as he began wiping the glasses to impeccable dryness. “With all the -” He swallowed, unable to get another fucking word out.

 

Molly didn’t look at him, she did nothing, she rejected nothing. That in itself was enough of an answer. Well, of course. Who the hell was he kidding? He was just some plaything that Sherlock regarded from time-to-time. Right. Good. That didn’t stop the sinking in his stomach, however. Fuck. Goddamn-shit-fuck, why did it hurt as much as it did?!

 

“You’re nothing special, John Watson.” She muttered, straightening herself. Well, ta for that. “You’re nothing special, but you’ve got to be; otherwise, Sherlock would’ve never stayed for his shifts when you’re around.” He could detect something dark in there somewhere, but before he could fully decipher what it was about, she was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, you all know what to do~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I don't know what happened. I knew that I was slowly heading towards some kind of direction, but... -facepalm- -slowly dies on the inside-

The first time it happened, he had mistaken it for furniture that seemed content with colliding with his arse. Of course, that might've been wishful thinking, in retrospect, but his deeper carnal self - that he would rather have preferred to remain hidden - knew exactly what, or rather _whose_ fucking _paws_ it was that just stroked where his back pocket was situated. It was subtle, he’ll give the damn bastard that. Subtle enough that he felt no need to voice anything amiss, because it was literally a _brush_ \- nothing to contact the MI6 for, unfortunately. The fucking country is - literally - as safe as it led on. God help him.

 

It wasn’t exactly an everyday thing, per se, rather it just appeared and left. That was all it was. It paid no heed to pursue back, because he really thought nothing of it. From the first moment he saw the bloke, he knew very well that the bastard was going to ruin him. Somehow. But, he never thought that the moron actually would take interest in him. John Watson. Was a Captain. Was an Army Doctor. Then he got injured. The end. Premonition be damned.

 

“And so it begins.” One crooned to the other. Very misleading, that. Could’ve been much more prepared, or rather abandoned the job altogether by then, if he knew what they meant.

 

“How long do you think this one’ll last, ey, Mark?” He drank his whiskey sour with the pretentious, pinky-up as he drank. And fuck you too. Bastard.

 

‘Mark’ looked disinterested in the matter, but he eyed John with a lazy once-over, and shrugged.

 

“‘eel  be in-love within the week.”

 

“You intend to make a wager, my friend?” The same twat who asked the question, threw an arm around this Mark person’s broad shoulders. Of course he heard everything they said, but he was more worried about getting through his probation period with at least a passing grade. Not that he intended to stay in here long, but the pay itself was something to be desired. “50 quid says that they’ll fuck two days from now.”

 

He didn’t hear anything else, but he reasoned that they probably slapped each other a handshake. It didn’t take him long to forget the whole conversation altogether. Bloody children these people were.

 

-

 

“Why hello, John Watson.” But of course, what day wouldn’t be better to be stuck in the employee lounge with his very favourite person in the entire universe.

 

He ignored the greeting in favour for taking a vicious bite out of his sandwich. He just got his first paycheck on the mail, and the first thing he knew he would do with that money was to buy food that wasn’t cold and depressingly bland or overly salty. He was prepared to ignore anything this prick says, actually, because he knew better than to be swayed by someone who spoke the devil’s incantations on a daily basis.

 

“Oh, come now, don’t be like that,” Voiced Sherlock with a slight rumble in his timber. It was the sound of sex, and of bloody course, some of his blood went south. Traitors.

 

Apparently, the idiot had no common sense, because he took John’s silence as some kind of initiation to sit on the same couch he sat on, but on the other end. “I just wanted to chat, a bit, you know?” His long fingers traced on the space that separated them with random squiggles (though now that he examined it, might just be the bastard’s signature). “Get to know our new bartender.”

 

“And why would you do that?” He wiped a corner of his lip with the back of his hand. Pale, bony fingers reached out to hand him his balled up napkin in offering. He rolled his eyes, but grabbed it anyway and kept it packed within clenched fists.

 

“Well.” The voice came a bit closer, and there was shifting on the couch. Fuck. He’s dealing with a predator. A fucking predator. “Maybe I _like_ talking to bartenders.”

 

“There are plenty of them out there,” He quipped off-handedly, his hip bone literally kissed the wood of the couch he sat on, and there were cushions _between_ his thighs and the material. When was this bastard going to take a hint? “I’m sure many of them are interested in...whatever it is you’re offering.”

 

“Oh, don’t be stupid.” And that there, friends, is when they met each other’s thighs. “I’m not offering anything to _them_ . Though I can’t deny my particular interest in _this_ venture.” Yep, that was definitely a shiver that zinged down his trousers.

 

With a careful breath, he tried ignoring the approaching heat that grazed his temples, and the warmth that emanated from this bloke’s pores.

 

He opened the eyes he never realized he closed, and stared back onto Sherlock’s endless pools of grey, blues, and if he squinted, just a touch of brown. There wasn’t exactly any hint that indicated his apparent interest in there. In fact, he looked more bored than anything. He tried to emulate _sexy_ , and yes, to some extent, he _did_ , but if given enough attention, there really was nothing there. He could see the appeal (because what kind of an idiot was he if he didn’t?) though; the whole riotous of curls that just screamed to be pulled, those ridiculously pointy cupid’s bow lips, and god, those eyes, they spelt sin. But he had his own reservations, and if he gave in, then he might as well just hand in his resignation letter now.

 

Most of his thoughts vanished when Sherlock leaned in close, his thick lashes fluttered the moment his lips touched John’s own. Neither had their eyes closed though, and they kept it that way for a few moments, not moving, and just tasting the other’s air.

 

Eventually, Sherlock’s vacant expression gained a bit of life to them when he wasn’t getting the result he wanted. In fact, he even looked irritated at something on John’s face, but he stayed; he stayed, and he breathed softly through his nose close to John’s like it was a personal offense to him if he didn’t.

 

John inwardly smirked, and Sherlock could see it, because he began glaring. Neither moved still.

 

He knew that they wouldn’t be able to keep this position for long. Frankly, he could already hear voices coming from outside the lounge, and if neither of them pulled away, their co-workers would suspect something.

 

Without warning, he bit onto a corner of Sherlock’s lip, and he hated that he didn’t have his recorder on at the time, because the sound that escaped the bloke’s mouth was something he didn’t except. It was the sound of a squeak. A fucking _squeak_ like John was the one who had him undone.

 

This was a definitely a moment to behold, because Sherlock genuinely looked perplexed by it. He didn’t utter a word. He didn’t even fucking _move_ from his position. He had his bottom lip slightly parted, and his eyes were these wide fucking tsunamis. He wished he could find a better metaphor, but that’s what they fucking were: _tsunamis_. There was a bit of pink by his cheekbones, but that could probably be from the ongoing heater set on high - it was practically a sauna in here.

 

“Sher -”

 

But the look was gone faster than he could put a label to it. In its place was a smirk (that verged on a sneer), and something dangerous, something life-threatening. It was _the_ look that spoke purely of endless challenges, and utter madness that broke through his self-imposed victory.

 

Right then and there, he knew: he. was. **fucked**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I mean?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always something about visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, obviously, things needed to progress between these two. It's not the usual flavour that I presented before, but hopefully it would give some insight to their little...arrangement.

Sometimes he didn’t know whether he was the dog, or the person who led the leash.

 

“Sorry, what?” He sputtered from his morning coffee, just when he finally felt comfortable on his lumpy chair (really, he could’ve bought a new one by now, but he felt that the other chair adjacent to him would feel lonely if he did) - ruddy thing. It was his day off for god’s sake, and he will bloody well enjoy it; even if he had to pretend that he was happily strolling around the park for no good fucking reason, and force-feed every fucking duck, or swan - or whatever the hell he sees first - stale bread. The break was a long time coming.

 

There was a sigh at the other end. Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly all fucking rainbows and sunshines for him either.

 

“ **_John, I am aware that it is barely tea time, but it is incredibly crucial for you to -_ ** ”

 

“No, no, no,” He gently placed his forgotten mug over the counter, whilst he dropped his whole weight over the long couch that sat on the far end of the flat. Cheers to fucking sounding like a whiny child through it all. “You bloody well know my schedule - “ down to the fucking _hour_. Why wasn’t he put off by this yet?! “ - it’s my day-off, remember? I could hardly be arsed to -”

 

There was some rustling, and phone line went dead.

 

He knew that he should’ve felt _something_ about the sound, but he surprised himself by being numb all over (which was colossal if he thought about it). If Sherlock actually needed something, he would’ve dropped by like he always did (because apparently, it was his _duty_ , and totally fucking written in his contract). Not that John wanted him there (a lie, because of course), but dread itself was a bastard, and here he was, staying fucking put.

 

It had been a few days now, but his forced isolation made him rethink a few things; he didn’t need this, any of it. He fucking had the time of his life in the army, he got shot, and all hell broke loose. That posh prick might have contributed to why he looked forward to his day a bit, but if it kept being held over his head like some fucking guillotine, then he might as well leave and never turn back. He deserved better, for fucks sake.

He knew that being with Sherlock was nothing like a marital vow; there wasn’t any working agreement between them (mostly because Sherlock was apparently above any kind of restriction), heck, the moron could’ve been dating anyone behind his back, and it would’ve been considered _okay_ , because they weren’t exclusive. It wasn’t that the unspoken rules only went one way, but fucking hell, he wasn’t a cheater then, nor was he one now. God, he needed to drink something stronger.

 

-

 

For the first time in years, he didn’t realize he fell asleep, and his eyes blearily flew open to the moon. Everything was dark, and surprisingly, it was a quiet night for once; no fucking dog barking at all hours, no wee adults stumbling around the place. It was sort of...nice. Well. There goes his fucking sleeping schedule.

 

His bones healthily popped as he stretched them, and his neck refused to turn anywhere to his right. He was slightly hazy from the excessive nap - maybe he should eat something? The taste of rotting clementine on the back of his throat wasn’t actually as attractive as it sounded.

 

Without opening the lights, he headed straight towards his fridge, but found nothing that would constitute as edible. When was the last time he did shopping? A week? Maybe two? Fuck knows.

 

There was a knock to his door, and there was no mistaking who stood on the other side. Did god actually take him seriously? Couldn't people take jokes these days? Perhaps they finally decided to grant the wish of a raggedy man who was desperate for any kind of company? He palmed his eye sockets with a strained sigh.

 

“Sherlock.” He spoke in his attempt of a curt greeting. This whole thing was just fucking routine now that he just wanted to bawl in a corner and forget this god-forsaken world for once.

 

The latter stared at him briefly, but nodded in response. He was clutching at his side with one arm, his coat haphazardly thrown on but unbuttoned, pooling around him like some dramatic cape. There was visible signs of blood that dripped all over the wood, and all he could do was sigh inwardly whilst he waved a hand towards their regular spot. He needed to wipe that up later.

 

He approached Sherlock who already shed his coat on his way there. He already took out the spare clothing he somehow snuck in during his visits, and had them clutched at his lap. He was playing with a loose string of his jumper when John decided to approach. His grip shortly tightened before he allowed John to move the articles of clothing away to tear open the fabric. It was hardly clothing material anyway if a fourth of it was already missing.

 

They met eyes, and Sherlock looked neither surprised at the action, nor had he spoken a word. But then, John didn’t really expect him to. Oh. Now that was just playing dirty. So it was going to be one of those day. And here he thought he was going to have a normal lie-in for once.

 

Meticulously, he reached towards the antiseptic, and reached towards the wounded area underneath Sherlock’s ribcage. He also took out his newly purchased sutures, and a clean pair of scissors. This happened often enough that the whole procedure was done in under twenty minutes, and Sherlock was following after him in his bedroom, and began shedding his trousers, revealing milky legs.

 

He didn’t have enough time to study a particular freckle, because Sherlock was already putting on his sleep clothing, and suddenly, all he could think about was going to bed.

 

Soon enough, he also got rid of his home clothes and folded them to be placed atop his night table, and he had nothing but his boxers on. He took the only available spot on the bed, and pulled the duvet higher, so that it covered both their shoulders.

 

They faced each the moment their heads hit the pillows, and scooted closer to the other until they felt each other’s warmth, but never touched. It went that way for a couple of minutes when Sherlock finally allowed a thin film of moisture to coat his eyes. His face, however, remained composed.

 

God. How come this bastard always looked so beautiful. Totally fucked, indeed.

 

He reached out a hand towards one cheekbone, and stroked at it until tears slipped down his companion’s cheeks. He liked to think that the muscles around the face softened under his touch, but dismissed it at the same moment. Hope was a fallacy when it came to this man, which was why he didn’t dwell on it.

 

There wasn’t change in his expression, but the tears kept on flowing horizontally from the corners of his eyes to the fabric of his pillows; just a thin stream of transparency that trailed across his nose.

 

They stayed like that until they both fell asleep in that position.

 

Unsurprisingly, when he woke up, Sherlock wasn’t there. The illusion shattered once more. Sliding a hand over it, the sheets was cold, but it was enough to indicate that Sherlock stayed for at least a few hours. Which was...something that he hadn’t anticipated, but was welcomed anyway.

 

He got up with a loud yawn, his brain rebooting to full consciousness.

 

The first thing he did was to make a grab for his well-stocked cleaning supplies when he saw it.

 

Barefoot padding towards creaky wood, he approached the cool ceramic that sat on the table (placed deliberately so that it would be the first thing he saw), empty of its contents from the morning prior, with a bit of dried blood on the lip of the rim where he drank from.

 

He tugged at some hair by his ears.

 

Bastard. You cruel, cruel bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...what do you think? Any guesses on why things are the way they are during Sherlock's visit?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock were both in shock, but not necessarily at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: potential depression/PTSD triggers ahead** It's not explicit (rather it's implicit, but slightly implied), but the feel of it is prominent within the narrative if you squint - proceed with caution, my friends.
> 
> P.S. Prior knowledge of "A Study in Pink" might be required for a portion of the story. Happy Reading.

Meeting Molly wasn’t really something he had anticipated. 

 

“He’s not here - I don’t think.”

 

He barely even realized the touch of the blade to his thumb until he was dazed, and the thought that he might’ve sliced his own thumb gurgled from his already sluggish thoughts. He was in shock? The room spun some more. Yep. Definitely in shock. Wait, how the hell did he get this ridiculous cat blanket thrown over his shoulder? Moreover, why was he in a five-year old’s play house?

 

“Keep pressure on that, will you?” The woman’s voice was stern, but was soothing all the same. “You’re a doctor, so I don’t think I have to explain what would happen if you don’t.” He pressed on without protest.

 

“How -”

 

“Well, you were preparing salsa, I think, and -”

 

“No, I mean, how did I get here?” His thoughts were slowly beginning to regain normal functions, and what he thought was some child’s room was actually an office. It was an easy mistake with horrifying strings of pink littering the entire vicinity, along with pictures of bored-looking cats on bizarre costumes; anybody with eyes could’ve missed certificates and awards with the name: Dr. Marybeth Hooper trapped beneath all that clutter.

 

“Oh, well.” She was still busy debating which bandaid to use for the wound (a bright yellow smiley face, or a bloody hedgehog). “You were in shock, so I just basically led you in here; no harm done.”

 

“But what about -”

 

“I told the other bartender, Rob, to cover for you, a bit,” She assured him sternly. For some reason, he had this instinct to hold his tongue with this woman. “First time accident, I hope?” And she had this questioning look to her that spoke of something more. He focused on his sliced thumb, which was more interesting at the moment. He didn’t want to speak about it with Ella; this stranger was no different.

 

“Uh, yeah, actually.” He scratched at the back of his head. Idiot, he was a stupid idiot for not watching his fingers. It was the first bloody rule for god’s sake. “Usually not that clumsy with a knife,” and if it sounded more defensive than he had intended, Marybeth didn’t seem to notice, or minded - if she had, she didn’t point it out.

 

“Oh, I’m sure.” She smiles in a hybrid of both a sly and timid one, whilst she approached with the damn hedgehog bandaid clutched between both hands. Why did it have to be the goddamn hedgehog one?! “May I?”

 

He removed his grip on the thick wad of cloth pressed on the wound, and allowed her to sterilize the area first, bandage it, and wrapped it with latex that spanned from his fingertip to a fourth of his thumb to cover the wound.

 

“Now here’s your lolly.”

 

Before he could get a single word out, an artificial-tasting grape was shoved onto the centre of his mouth; that little - he had no choice but to reflexively taste the cloyingly sweet-bitter flavour. Grape-flavoured lollies were the absolute bane of his existence. At her stern gaze, he acquiesced, and kept the putrid thing on the side of his mouth.

 

“Thanks,” He mumbled half-heartedly. “Marybe -”

 

“Molly,” She corrected reflexively (it seemed), and took a seat on an ugly blob of fur, shaped like a kitten. “- not Marybeth, ju-just Molly.”

 

“Molly, then.” He got up his seat, and offered a hand towards her. “John Watson.”

 

She shook his hand from her position, and placed it back onto her lap; she had a twinkle to her eye, and a smile to her face like she saw something he didn’t.

 

“I know.”

  
  


-

  
  


At the end of his shift, the clients dwindled until all there was left were the remaining hosts who took their nightly shot of absinthe before waving everybody a good night. He shouldn’t have been as disappointed as he was that Sherlock didn’t show, but he was, and for some reason the weight he carried throughout his shift just got heavier.

 

With a bone-tired sigh, he just threw his coat on, and clutched at his outside clothes with his free hand as he headed towards the door. Maybe a long walk towards his flat would do him some good.

 

-

  
  


A couple of miles towards his flat - as if it was some sick, twisted fate - he saw Sherlock Holmes. Only for once, it was one-sided, and the bastard conversed with some raggedy cabby who looked as though he had just caught his meal for the evening - he didn’t know how to feel about that.

 

“I didn’t kill them, Mr. ‘olmes.” The man continued, voice soft and sharp all the same.“I talked to them, and then they killed themselves.”

 

Sherlock’s words were muffled by a long string of cars passing along, but what he did know was the bloody idiot entered the cab along with the creepy bloke as a driver. He didn’t know what compulsed him to hail a cab during the exchange, but all he knew was that he needed to catch up, and fast.

  
  


-

  
  


The whole event with having killed a psycho cabby just flashed by like a passing memory, and he stood behind the regulatory police tape whilst he took short glances at the idiot, wondering what he had ever done to be stuck with a bloody lunatic like this one.

 

Why was he even here in the first place? For all he knew, they could very well trace this whole incident back to him (seeing as Lestrade was knew about his occupation), but thought nothing of it. If it served to preserve this reckless idiot’s life just a touch longer, then maybe he was proud of the blood that he had in his hands.

 

At the sight of the detective, he began speaking.

 

“Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything: two pills; dreadful business isn’t it? Dreadful.”

 

The fluorescent glow never did leave the gleam on Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“Good shot.”

 

“Yes, yes must’ve been,” you damn bastard. “- through that window.” you better not make a bloody scene out of this, you reckless idiot.

 

Only the moron looked even more amused.

 

“Well, you’d know.” Silence drifted between them, and he thought that was the end of that. Only. “Are you alright?”

 

His throat stopped working. Was this bloody fool joking? John just killed a man, and he felt more alive than he had been when he got shot. God, he felt like some bloody adrenaline junky with a need for a fix - which he was (what was the point in lying to himself about it?), but he wouldn’t  _ dare _ voice that thought out loud.

 

“Yes,” If he didn’t stutter, that would have been great. “- of course I’m alright.”

 

“Well you  _ have _ just killed a man.”

 

Yes, it  _ was _ true. But… “- he wasn’t a very nice man.”

 

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable for nothing short of a second before he was sure that John’s verdict was legitimate.

 

“No, no, he really wasn’t, was he?” He seemed to be weighing something in that gigantic head of his, but overall, he looked more thrilled than horrified about the revelation.

 

“And frankly a bloody awful cabby.”

  
  


And everything was fine after that. All fine.

  
  


-

  
  


Naturally, they shared a cab. Sherlock offered to pay, and John could hardly refuse (those bloody italian loafers were the very definition of overwhelming opulence - one cab ride for two shouldn’t affect his wealth...much).

 

At his stop, John lugged himself out the door whilst his hand habitually flew to the back of his jeans, finding his sudden lack of a revolver. Did he drop it on the way? No...he would’ve felt it if it hit the ground, or moved an inch lower down his bollocks, so where the fuck was it?! My god, if Lestrade had found it, he would go ape-shit when he finds out that it was John who killed the cabby.

 

The cab didn’t move, and Sherlock stuck his head out with his pistol held at eye-level. His expression gave nothing away, but John burned from its intensity alone.

 

“Rule number one: dying before me is not permitted, are we clear? Good.”

 

And before John could speak another word, the door closed, and Sherlock had already tucked the item inside his coat pocket; his nose stuck to the mobile phone he held. 

 

The cab was out of sight in minutes, and he just stood there wondering, wondering how much the bloody idiot really saw.

 

He fell asleep deeply without his gun for the first time in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What insight have you glanced at from this chapter? Why do you think Sherlock made that rule? What about Molly? Anything interesting you'd like to share? If so, then please do so~! I love hearing people's thoughts on this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John loses, and for some reason that was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:
> 
> 1) For those who hadn't caught on yet, let me make something clear (because only one person - bless you, darling - brought it up, which could indicate that at least a few of you are on the same boat): the chronology is one fixed timeline, but the story is told from present to past alternatively (chapter 1 is the present, chapter 2 is the past, and so on in that same pattern for the rest of the chapters). Any questions regarding the story will be answered in full to the best of my ability (should you impart me with them), so feel free to do so any time you'd like.
> 
> 2) I was going to post a chapter yesterday, but it turned a bit...-coughs and blushes- actually, nevermind, I won't tell you. Let's just say the offending file was trashed and burned (where it belongs) right after. Hopefully y'all would enjoy this chapter as much as I do, because I laughed myself to a fit while I was writing this today. Please enjoy~

“And you’re okay now?”

 

He had to do a double-take when he entered, because he was sure that he heard Sherlock, and saw Sherlock, but this...sorry-excuse for a host-come-detective, acted nothing like the man he knew.

 

John had to turn his eyes away before he could fully allow himself to be punched in the stomach further - the first few ones were already painful as it was.

 

He watched the beautiful woman be entrenched in the same situation as he was, only she got the the better end of the bargain; she was within an inch away from that pile of sodding Edward Cullens, expensive chocolates, and overly priced handbags (he really could barely give a rats arse to), and John couldn’t have been more envious.

 

She said something to him, and he smiled like she carved his way around the world (John was leaning along the forbidden b-word, but stopped himself before it took over his mouth), and tucked a loose curly strand that hang off her forehead to the back of her ears.

 

Okay. He was ready for a distraction now. Mike, Molly, or any sodding distraction would ought to be good. It didn’t have to be people, per se; dead bodies, getting hit by a truck that spontaneously crashed in his area of work, the apocalypse, or just the bloody world ending, any of those would do.

 

Speaking of.

 

“Captain.”

 

He gritted his teeth, decidedly _not_ paying any mind to their direction, and focused on sharpening all his cutlery **very** thoroughly. VERY _thoroughly_.

 

“Captain.”

 

Oooh, the man was bloody good at what he did, John would give him that much. Good enough to get sacked on the face - a splash of colour would surely give the bloke a fresh new look.

 

“ _Cap_ tain!”

 

“ _wHAT?!_ ” When he realized that a few eyes drifted in their location (including curvy bodice, and pretty eyes, but not the smug fucker whom she sat on), he gave them his best chastised look, and hung his head low. For god’s sake! It wasn’t even the fucking first time he saw this happening, so why the fuck was he this pissed that Sherlock was getting it on with a woman, exotic as she was. She could’ve been John’s type not-so-long-ago, if this whole...Sherlockness didn’t happen. God, this bloke had done it: he had ruined John for everybody else. The fucker.

 

Maybe he would clock him after all.

 

“J-Just, sliders.” Pretty-boy waved awkwardly towards John’s grill, which coincidentally held a few patties close to being done. Right. They were never really used to his captain voice no matter the amount of times he did it. “Client’s a bit peckish.”

 

“Uh, sure.” He went ahead, and flipped them one last time, and squatted a bit to get plates. “How many?” He didn’t look up when he added a couple sets of buns for light toasting.

 

“T-Two sets...sir.” The last part was added after a long, incredibly obvious pause.

 

When he got them prepared to his liking, he held both plates with each hand, and studied the empty bottles they had on shelves for decoration.

 

“I’m, um, sorry about…” He didn’t even know how to finish his sentence without sounding like an overbearing, insecure, jealous boyfriend - they weren’t even in a fucking relationship, so he had no right to claim that title for his own.

 

“I-It’s fine.” The bloke bumbled again, his face cherry red. He wasn’t looking at John either, in fact, he was squirming somewhere on his leg area, and his pupils were blown wide. Oh. Well...not offended then. His gaze slid towards the slightly bulging trousers, and confirmed his suspicion. _Definitely_ not offended.

 

When neither spoke, there was this sort of void-like tension in the air, before said pretty-boy brazenly reached towards the plates he held, and unashamedly made his interest apparent when he brushed their hands together. He took one last lingering glance towards John’s direction - teeth cushioned by his bottom lip - before he headed towards some direction where he last sat.

 

Coincidentally, that was when his attention drifted towards the bastard, and watched their lips locking for what felt like forever, before the lady pushed gently towards Sherlock’s chest to separate them. She looked at something on the idiot’s face, before she took one last peck on his cheek, and tucked her hand bag beneath her arm.

 

Hazel eyes met John’s as she departed, and she had this creepy smile to her face - it’s...he didn’t like it. It was like she knew something he didn’t - it was nothing new, but he hated her version of it for some reason - like she won a one-sided competition between them.

 

Before he could comprehend what he felt, she was gone, and he was left confused, conflicted, and just a tiny bit flattered. It wasn’t that he prided himself for his past status in the army, but it was good to know he could still pull either genders if he wanted to.

 

“Refill.” Came a curt order, followed by the sound of glass against the counter.

 

Without meeting the other’s eyes, he grabbed the glass closer, and poured the dark liquid onto the awaiting glassware, and handed it back on the same spot prior.

 

“Let’s see,” He was already reaching towards the guest list before he could allow himself to say something stupid, and stake his claim where it wasn’t warranted. “- you’ve another client at 4:30, followed by stud-face on his regular time, then -”

 

Another clack of the glass against wood.

 

“More.”

 

He laughed a little under his breath (why?), whilst he plucked the carton of grape juice (because in contrast to him, the idiot apparently loved the artificial sweetness of the bloody thing), and poured it directly as he would a shot of tequila.

 

“Another.”

 

He poured another. Maybe the bastard was thirsty?

 

“You know, we should stock up on these if you love them so much.”

 

“John.”

 

This time he did look up.

 

“Wha -”

 

And it took a second for his brain to catch up and realize Sherlock was kissing him. Right there. With everybody watching. He had his eyes closed (almost like he savoured the feeling - yeah right), and John had his wide open. It didn’t even matter that this bastard’s mouth tasted sweet and pungent at the same time (cigarettes and grape juice shouldn’t taste _this_ addictive). What did matter was he was kissing John (even when he made it a point earlier in their ‘relationship’ that he wouldn’t), and not the person Sherlock was apparently in-love with. And if that wasn’t the hottest thing, then -

 

Sherlock pulled away, swiping the back of his hand towards his lips smugly. He was looking at John like he just did one of his deductions, and he was expecting for John to praise him on it.

 

“Game set and match.” He muttered before walking away, sashaying on each step with his nonexistent hips swinging like a bloody pendulum beneath John’s gaze.

 

He was glad that there was a chunk of wood that separated them; if there wasn’t, then he could not be accounted for what he’d do, had that wanker dared repeating something that reckless again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John, you three-continents-Watson, you. What did you think John meant about the person Sherlock was supposedly in-love with? Notice the new character? Who is she (only those who didn't notice the tag change is allowed to guess)? Anybody getting ready their pitchforks yet?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time where lies sounded more truthful than truths themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blegh, I'm all bleary eyed with wanting to get this done before I went to sleep (I've tried my best with editting it the best I could, but I will re-read it tomorrow - or rather, today, but much later - for any possible errors or addition). Saw the spike in the amount of people that read when I clarified on the order of how the story was narrated, which is good. Uhhh, any other questions you would love to bring up, please feel free to leave them below. If you have questions, there is a large possibility that others might be having the same difficulty. No question is ever a stupid one, just that you're all aware. Confusion is the best advocate for learning.

**221 B**

 

It was written right there, plain as day, and just as excessive as he imagined it to be. Who the hell even had the time to polish the damn plaque on the wall?

 

He snorted. If he was to hazard a guess, he would think that the bloody idiot had some sort of housekeeper or something - he literally had nothing that connected him to the convict magnet (the club, obviously), for all the time he’d known him. Sherlock came in during his appointed times, and left without so much as a word of goodbye. Not like he didn’t expect it, of course - must be the bloody aristocratic hair.

 

_“And what am I supposed to do with this, exactly? We don’t live in each other’s pockets like everybody would love to believe, Mr. Holmes.”_

 

_“Think of it as -” He swiped a careful hand over the miniature owl he kept on his table. “- an extension to your job description; hardly a difficult feat for you to adhere to, seeing as you both seem to be quite taken with the other.”_

 

 _He ignored the blatant insinuation. “A contract that I_ ** _already_** _signed, and have a copy of in my flat.” Of course he read it word-for-word, and being that gigantic man-child’s guardian slash minder was something he wouldn’t have agreed to, had it been there in the first place. “If you need a babysitter, then feel free to hire one, seeing as you’ve enough resources.” And man-power to practically start another fucking war if he wanted._

 

_There was stiffness on the corner of the man’s lips when he pursued what other people would’ve deemed a smile, but ended up more like snide-condescension. Oh bloody hell, he swore this bloke resembled the owl pin he kept on the breast area of his three-piece suit._

 

_Was this man trying to emulate fear? Because he looked more like a devotee for owls more than anything else (if the figurines and statuesque stone carvings he kept in his office weren’t telling enough), and the whole power play was suddenly getting irritating the longer he stayed._

 

 _Godforbid there came a day where he actually_ **_understood_ ** _Sherlock’s secretive nature, if he had to deal with this megalomaniac for an older brother for most of his life._

 

_“You will be provided with the appropriate compensation, of course. You’re already applied within our registry, it hardly extends to your usual…prolictivities with my brother - just...tell me what he’s up to -” And as if he was looking at the question marks on John’s gaze, he sighed in exasperation. “- whether he is in need of rehabilitation, surgery, and whatever else you deem of certain importance.”_

 

 _“And why would I do that?” Having dealt with the bastard at work was mentally taxing as is, why the hell would he have the need to be around_ **_that_ ** _all the bloody time?!? “If that -” he coughed onto his fist. Ooh, he almost allowed his mouth to do all the thinking. “If Sherlock needed your help, wouldn’t you be the first one to be contacted? Seeing as you’re family and all.” For all he knew, Mycroft could’ve had spies littering the place this whole time; as to why he asked for John’s help was filled with too many blanks to truly consider._

 

_He turned up his pretentious nose to the question. Ah, finally he was seeing the family resemblance._

 

_“In my deepest regrets, I’m afraid that our...current status as siblings are somewhat compromised.” Mycroft aimed for stoic, but he could sense the underlying emotions that was barricaded within high walls - higher than Sherlock’s (if that was even possible). “I must admit, it was an error on my behalf, however, -” His mouth opened briefly, before he realized who he spoke to, and shook his head; his mouth closed in the same instance. “Nevertheless, I have tried a plethora of methods to exert my surveillance upon his person, but he...his knack for evasion can be quite...tactful.”_

 

_This time he did laugh. Only those who’ve had the misfortune of meeting and knowing the moron knew exactly what he meant._

 

_“You mean you can’t spy on him even if you wanted to. Perfect.” He punched the air in front of him horizontally in mock jest. “Can I leave now?” He didn’t wait for a reply, and just got up towards the door he entered from. On his way out, he was stopped when Mycroft spoke again._

 

_“If you are to continue your...burgeoning relations with my brother, I would suggest that you would not divulge about the details included in this meeting; in doing so, be prepared to bare some... responsibility, should the event arise.”_

 

_Before the door came to a full close, he had one last glance at the supposed ‘iceman’ (the hosts did nothing but gossip in-between hours), and saw a glimpse of something not quite as cold and impenetrable, but more damp and droopy. He must be crazy. He must be crazy, because for the first time since their supposed coerced meeting, he actually believed him._

  
  


Maybe he was just testing the gods when he made his presence known. A simple knock would do. Maybe.

 

Only it wasn’t enough, apparently. Nobody answered, and he stood there like an idiot that awaited for his master who might not even be home in the first place. He didn’t know what compelled him to stay; call it a fool’s whimsy.

 

“John Watson.” There was a rustling to his side, and his suspicion was confirmed.

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, and his heart was trying to claw its way out of his throat.

 

But, Sherlock just appeared to be ignoring him, seeing as there was a gust of wind and a click of the lock which indicated entry. More rustling came, and the second click never did appear. He stared blankly towards the opening to the entry way, then to the empty space that Sherlock just inhabited.

 

Footsteps echoed after about a minute, and a certain curly head poked itself through the entrance with a scowl to his face. He changed into a slim-fit dark jumper, and loose yoga pants; he didn’t even bother to wear shoes, and just went barefooted. All John had ever seen of this man was tight shirts, and fitted everything (frankly he might’ve believed it if someone had told him that the bloke was born wearing a suit), but this look was...different. It made him look more softer, and more approachable...more attainable than the cold ice John was well acquainted with.

 

“I’m not usually in the habit of exhibitioning my own home, so if you would be so kind as to get your person in here. Now.” The last word was spoken with emphasis that it sounded like he’d rather do much else.

 

John numbly went in, not expecting much else. Mycroft’s words was still ringing around his head. What did he mean by their relationship being compromised? What could he have done to warrant such a reaction from Sherlock that their relationship had taken a big hit? Moreover, why was Sherlock still working for the man if he disliked or hated his sibling? Something’s clearly not adding up, and if he had any means of finding out, then what better way to just extract the information right from the horse’s mouth?

 

“Hey Sher -” But before he could expand on his train of thought, the whole bridge burned down the moment the bastard was mouthing at his neck almost hungrily. Which was...odd. Kind of hard to explain it when getting off was all he could think about. That didn’t stop the groan that escaped his lips, however.

 

“You’ve been to Mycroft’s.” Sherlock stated as a matter-of-a-factly, whilst he got on his knees, and started pawing on John’s growing erection. “You smell of burnt pinewood incense, the only brand he ever uses.” There goes the zipper. How could this man still be coherent, even in the middle of mouthing on the fabric of John’s underwear? “Which must mean he has made you the offer of spying on me; hardly a difficult deduction that you accepted.”

 

“Now hold on, I didn’t -”

 

“Didn’t take the offer? How preposterous.” He had this burning look of certainty in his eyes that John was taken aback just for a moment. Did he actually believe that John would accept something that could be regarded as a breach of privacy, when he himself strived on the very thing?

 

He thought that Sherlock understood him when he didn’t give his gun back until the month after, only to explain that he had arranged it so that the whole incident could not be tracked back to John. It was a considerate thing to do, but the part of him that thought that the reason that Sherlock had kept it so long was to keep John from possibly blowing his own brains out, evaporated in that instant. Who was he to assume that the idiot would at least see him in a better light after he shot that cabby? He was a nobody. He should’ve already had that drilled onto his head by now.

 

The pressure on his front disappeared the moment he realized that his arousal had flagged.

 

The bloody idiot just looked at him with those unnervingly contrasting dark-bright eyes, trying to probe pass the iron shield that prevented most people from looking too much into what he thought.

 

“Which is it?” Sherlock asked again, a bit of flush evidently making its way up his neck. He looked more annoyed by the second. “You did, didn’t you?” There was this sort of pleading quality to his voice that spoke of more in the condition that he agreed to the whatever else he said; want some arsenic? Sure! He would bloody love some!

 

 _I’m not everybody else._ He wanted to say. _I refused the bloody offer the first chance I got, because I’m not that type of person_.

 

However, what came out of his mouth was a single resounding.

 

“Yes.”

 

And his last thought before skin met skin, was the fleeting thought of: what.had.he. **_done_ **?!

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimme, gimme~

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? A kudo? Really, either one will do. Thanks lots if you do!
> 
> Here's a link to the song if you're interested:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BwfuFuYOWE


End file.
